


Christmas With The Landlord

by Liadt



Category: Rising Damp (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Lots of alcohol, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, period attitudes and language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-01-25 14:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: Alan and Rigsby are spending their first Christmas together at Alan's parent's, but they think Rigsby is just Alan's landlord. Will Alan summon up the courage to tell his parents otherwise?
Relationships: Rupert Rigsby/Alan Moore (Rising Damp)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 1





	Christmas With The Landlord

On Christmas Eve, outside the train station, long after the last train had left, light flakes of snow had started to fall down from the sky. Rigsby and Alan were standing close to each other, because although they were well wrapped up, their winter clothing couldn’t keep out the chill of a wind that cut like a knife. Alan had his hands shoved in his coat pockets, while Rigsby rubbed his gloved hands together. 

“I hope you father picks us up before we freeze to death,” said Rigsby. 

“I’ll ring him from a phone box if he doesn’t come soon,” promised Alan.

“Right now I could be sat at home next to the fire with a brandy,” moaned Rigsby. “Couldn’t you have told your mother you had flu and were too ill to travel?”

“I couldn’t do that; she’d spend all Christmas worrying about me. And it’d be lying.”

“As you’ve not told your parents about us, you can’t claim an aversion to lying as an excuse.”

“I’m not a liar; I’ve just not mentioned we’re a couple.”

“Hmm. You’re always telling me things are different now; it’s the seventies, don’t be ashamed and hide away. You must have coming out down pat by now.”

“Other than Philip and Ruth, I haven’t told anyone else about us,” said Alan, embarrassed about being caught out about not being out. 

“What about your student mates?”

“Who’s going out with who isn’t something they talk about. Not to me anyway, they all think I’m a dead loss in the love department. I would if they asked, I could take a week of ribbing until they moved on, but it’d be odd turning up for a lecture and announcing I’m with a bloke. We talk about essays and exams and how much we hate Doctor Tarrant.”

“Oh.” Once again, the youth of today had proved themselves not to be as self-assured and all knowing as they appeared.

“I feel rotten telling you to be out and proud and here I am treating you as a dirty secret and worrying about everyone else’s feelings except yours, which are the ones I should care about. I know I’m being selfish wanting to share Christmas with you, but not in the right way because my parents think you’re just the landlord who I’ve asked over for Christmas because you’re a sad, pitiful figure, who nobody wants to spend time with,” said Alan, thoroughly miserable at his deceit.

Rigsby, not wanting Alan to be downcast, linked his arm through his and tried to lift his spirits. “Honestly, as long as I’m with you it doesn’t matter if they think I’m a sad, lonely wreck.” He couldn’t help grimacing as he said those words as last year they would have been true. “It’s not all bad, I don’t have to visit my brother and it does make meeting the parents less of an ordeal. I like to avoid dealing with fathers; in my experience they can barely suppress their homicidal rage at the thought of me doing things with their darling child. And I would’ve found it hard to tell my parents if they were here. Good God, if they could see me now.” Rigsby shook his head.

Alan, who was looking less sorry for himself, blanched at the way Rigsby said his last sentence. It made plain Rigsby’s parents would be appalled and it tapped into his fears about what his own parents’ reaction might be.

Realising he shouldn’t have been so honest, Rigsby gave Alan’s arm a squeeze. “Any parent who isn’t happy to see their child happy isn’t much of a parent in the first place. Your parents are bound to react better than mine would’ve.” He smiled at Alan, reassuringly.

Alan managed a smile back. “I’ll make it up to you on New Year’s Eve,” he said, brightening up.

“You will, will you?” replied Rigsby, mildly, feeling content now Alan’s mood had changed.

“Yes!”

“Yes?”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” said Alan, suggestively.

“What? Clean the windows, hoover the stairs and scrub the bath every time you use it?” teased Rigsby.

“No, I don’t mean housework. My body is yours to command.”

“Isn’t it already?”

Alan elbowed him in the ribs for that. “And when you can’t think of anything else, I’ll perform a myriad of acts that’ll bring you to the heights of pleasure, the kind of which you’ve never experienced before.”

“I remember that chapter in _The Sheikh's Dominant Virgin Slave_ too. Miss Jones was asking if I’d seen her copy. I know what to say if she asks again. I also recall the rest of the chapter and I’ll be interested to find out how you’ll take me to these heights since it involves body parts neither of us have.”

“Look, do you want to spend a boring night on the sofa watching pipers playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on TV or get kinky with me?” Rigsby wasn’t responding as Alan thought he should and in his exasperation spoke louder than usual.

Rigsby unlinked his arm from Alan’s and tipped his trilby at a passing woman walking her dog. “Merry Christmas, Madam.”

She gave them an alarmed glance and increased her pace.

“That’s three people who know about us now,” said Rigsby and grinned.

Alan sulked, but not for long as a Ford Cortina pulled up. “Hey, that’s my dad’s car!”

* * * * 

“Alan!” said his mum as he walked in through the front door of his family home. The hallway was decorated with branches of holly balanced on top of pictures frames and masses of white paper chains, paper snowmen and Santas hung down from the ceiling. Alan’s mum was a short woman with dark curly hair and a round face. She kissed him and gave him a huge hug. “You feel so thin. You should come home more often and I can feed you up. You’re wasting away by spending all your time studying.”

“Aw, mum!” said Alan struggling to escape his mum’s grip.

“Leave the boy alone, he’s no thinner than anyone else. He doesn’t need you molly coddling him - he’s a grown man. This is Mr Rigsby, Alan’s landlord,” said Alan’s dad. His dad had a long face and Alan had inherited his height from him. 

“Hello, Mrs Moore,” said Rigsby, pressing a bottle of wine in to her hand and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for inviting me into your home for Christmas. I’m very grateful, as I’m a stranger to you. I hope my presence isn’t too much of an imposition,” he said, with a mixture of awkwardness and obsequiousness. 

“Thank you for the wine and it’s no trouble. Christmas is about thinking of others. Alan tugged on my heartstrings when he told me of how you’d be all alone. I felt an emptiness when Alan left for medical school, but at least I still had my Arthur. It must be hard when you have no one,” said Mrs Moore.

“Yes it was, I mean is,” said Rigsby, embarrassed. 

“I’m sure Mr Rigsby doesn’t want to be standing in the hallway all night being reminded why he’s here,” said Mr Moore. 

“Of course, Alan, take Mr Rigsby to your room. Your Nan is in the spare room and you’re on the sofa.”

“Why?” asked Alan. 

“How can I put this? Being older, Mr Rigsby would appreciate the comforts of a bed more than you,” said Mrs Moore.

“Can’t I put the camp bed up in my room?” Alan tried not to pout. He had assumed he’d be able to take advantage of sleeping arrangements to have some time alone with his lover. 

“I’ve lent it to the Waterson’s across the road. Their son has got engaged and his fiancée’s staying over, but not in the same room or bed,” said Mr Moore, who sounded approving of this arrangement.

“Oh,” said Alan, disappointed. 

“The sofa’s comfier than the old camp bed, now you go on up and show Mr Rigsby your room and I’ll open this bottle of wine,” said Mrs Moore, brightly.

* * * *

After divesting themselves of their outdoor clothing and shoes, Alan took Rigsby up to his old bedroom. 

“It’s not been decorated since I left,” said Alan, flicking on the light switch.

“Leave home at ten, did you?” said Rigsby looking at a poster of _The Herbs'_ Parsley the Lion above the bed and the dusty pair of action men who guarded the bookcase. “Who are they?” he said, pointing at a band poster. 

“The Sweet.”

“I bet I can guess you favourite member. Did he get an award for having the girliest hair, because the others are giving him strong competition?” 

“I don’t see why you’re being insulting since he’d be your favourite member as you’re obviously not adverse to men with long hair,” hissed Alan, and went to shut the curtains which had a repeating pattern of Rupert the bear and friends.

“Fair enough, although it’s not as long as it used to be,” said Rigsby coming over to run his hand through Alan’s locks, affectionately. “And I won’t complain about your curtains if it gave you an appreciation of Ruperts, be they bear or human.” Rigsby grinned and gave him a quick kiss.

“I’m sorry we can’t be alone together. I didn’t think the camp bed would be lent out.”

“Don’t be. Waterson Junior and his girl won’t be sharing a room either.”

“I’d forgotten it can be hard being straight too,” said Alan, with a wry smile.

* * * *

Alan went into the kitchen where his dad was helping his mum arrange nibbles onto plates and bowls. Alan picked up a packet of Bombay mix and poured it into a bowl. “Hey, isn’t Nan getting on with Rigsby like a house on fire?” he said, with faux enthusiasm.

“I wouldn’t go that far, they’re just talking to each other,” said Mr Moore, dubiously.

“It’s good he’s getting on with everyone though? There’s been no awkward silences,” said Alan, bright eyed with anxiety to hear Rigsby had made a good impression. If they liked Rigsby then perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if they knew Alan was going out with a bloke.

“He certainly has a lot of stories to tell of his youth, which I’m not convinced didn’t end up flying off on the wings of fantasy,” said Mr Moore.

“There’s nothing wrong with having an imagination – it’s good to be creative,” said Alan.

“If we don’t like him, will he put up your rent?”

“What? No, he wouldn’t.” Alan was puzzled.

“I can’t help thinking something like that is on your mind. You’ve been nervy all evening. Come to think of it so has he. I think you should have had a break from him,” said Mr Moore.

Alan kept his face in what he hoped was a neutral expression that hid his mortification. Give up Rigsby? Anyway, it was too late now - he was here.

“He was twitchy when I first took you to settle in his boarding house and I think you’re catching it. It’s good he put on a suit for the occasion, I approve of that, even if it looks like it only comes out for funerals. None of your slovenly dressing you young people favour. In my day, men wore suits and women wore twin sets and pearls,” said Mr Moore.

“Oh well, at least that’s something,” mumbled Alan into a packet of pretzels.

“That cravat though,” said Mr Moore.

“What’s wrong with it? I thought the snowmen pattern was a nice touch, it’s very swee...er...seasonal of him,” said Alan.

Mr Moore raised an eyebrow at Alan’s defensiveness. “Seasonal? Touched more like, it’s obvious why he’s on his own.”

“But, I’m … not going to agree with you,” ended Alan, feebly, after almost blurting out the truth. 

“Now, now, Arthur, we all have our little peculiarities. I dare say if you didn’t have me to iron out your foibles you’d be an eccentric, like your great uncle Alfred was,” said Mrs Moore as she checked the mulled wine on the stove wasn’t getting too hot. 

“Yes, Mr Rigsby certainly isn’t like him. There is a gulf between not fitting in and being a total fruitcake, now, Alfred was one you wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas with and I did as a child. I take back all I said about your landlord, I was nick picking on reflection.” Mr Moore downed a glass of Advocaat he was making into a snowball to blot out the memories. 

“We should be proud to have brought up a son who thinks of others instead of finding fault,” said Mrs Moore steering her husband away from gloomy private reminiscences and giving Alan a hug at the same time.

“I’m not that wonderful, mum.”

“Sons are to their mothers,” said Mr Moore, sticking some pineapple and cheese chunks on to a cocktail stick.

Should he speak up now? Mum was being very loving and understanding and his dad had recalled a relative who made Rigsby look good in his eyes. Well, not good, but not as bad. “I didn’t invite Rigsby here as a charity case. I can understand why you’d assume I did as I didn’t have a high opinion of him at first, but that changed and now he’s my...” 

Suddenly, the serving hatch opened and a face appeared. “Do you need any help in there?” said Rigsby.

“If you could put this on the coffee table that would be marvelous,” said Mrs Moore, with a jolly smile and passed a plate of prawn and mushroom vol-au-vants to him. “Now, what were you saying, Alan?” 

Alan sighed, the moment had passed and he’d lost his nerve. “Just that Rigsby’s now my friend as well as my landlord.”

“That’s nice, isn’t it, dear?” said Mrs Moore. “I’m glad you brought him, instead of that awful Brenda girl,” she added, with a snobby sniff.

“Awful, but Alan was too sensible to stick with that kind of girl long term,” said Mr Moore, picking up a tray.

Alan glumly poured himself a glass of eggnog from a jug. He didn’t know whether to be relieved Rigsby had interrupted him when he was about to tell his parents he was his boyfriend or not. They hadn’t exactly raved about him, although they had thought of people they considered worse than him, which was a start. A very small start. Alan sighed again and took the drink and Bombay mix into the lounge. 

* * * * 

Alan stole stealthily up the stairs and along the landing to his old bedroom. He ran his hand along the wall so he didn’t have to put the light on. When he reached his bedroom, he went in carefully, closing the door as quietly as possible behind him. He didn’t want to wake the rest of the household up as he was determined to spend some time with Rigsby as they were, lovers, no matter how briefly on Christmas day. Guided by moonlight coming through a gap in the curtains, Alan sat on the bed. Rigsby was asleep, dead to the world.

Alan lent down and whispered in his ear, “Wake up, Rupert, it’s Christmas.”

“Whurr? Alan? What time is it?” said a groggy Rigsby.

Alan flicked on the bedside lamp to check the Mickey Mouse alarm clock. “About four AM.”

Rigsby put an arm over his eyes to block about the light. “Four? Even over excited kids will still be asleep.”

“I wanted to wake you early to give you a present,” said Alan.

Rigsby lowered his arm and sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Is it something alcoholic? Because I’m going to need the hair of the dog after all those snowballs.”

“It’s a present I couldn’t give you in front of my parents.”

“Oh, that sort of _present_. You couldn’t wait until New Year’s Eve, eh?” A sly gleam came into Rigsby’s eyes and he nudged Alan. 

“Not that sort of present: my Nan is in the next room,” whispered Alan, alarmed. 

“Don’t worry about her. What do you think we did in air raid shelters after we got fed up of playing cards? All without upsetting any elderly relatives.”

Alan took a breath to protest and then let it out as he realised by Rigsby’s amused look he was having him on. “Anyway, here’s my present.” He took a small, rectangular parcel out of his dressing gown pocket and handed to Rigsby. “Don’t take offense, but I was trying to think of something you’d buy a partner and not a friend. I couldn’t afford anything really expensive, but it’s quality.”

Rigsby undid the wrapping carefully, in case the sound of tearing paper could reach Nan's ears. “Cologne, French too. Very nice, very grown up.”

“The girl on the perfume counter said it smelt irresistible,” said Alan, still anxious. 

Pushing one of the sleeves of his pajama jacket back, Rigsby sprayed his wrist and took a sniff. “The girl was right. Thank you, it’s a wonderful gift,” he said and smiled at him.

Alan relaxed his shoulders as his gift was met with approval. “’Course, you don’t have to spray it on your wrists.” He took the bottle off Rigsby and with a finger pushed his chin to the left and sprayed one side of his neck with cologne. Alan breathed in. “Mmm, irresistible,” he said and kissed above where he had sprayed Rigsby’s neck. Nice as it smelt, he didn’t fancy a mouthful of it and it would’ve reduced his pleasure at Rigsby’s response. 

“You didn’t need to buy me cologne to do that,” said Rigsby, a little breathlessly, when Alan let him go. “But if it makes you do it more often…” He then gave Alan a shy, but fond, look. “I’m a very lucky man to have found you. And I have a present for you too. I didn’t think I’d get the chance to give it to you here as your parents would think it’s a bit much for the landlord to be giving as a gift, but I brought it as it’s not very big.” He leaned over the side of the bed and rummaged in his overnight bag. He swung back up with a small, wrapped box in the palm of his hand. Alan took it from him and opened it. It was a pair of gold cuff-links. 

“You shouldn’t have. They’re too good for me, thank you.”

Rigsby waved away Alan’s protests. “When you become a proper doctor, you’ll need to look smart. They were my father’s. He didn’t have much in the way of possessions.”

“I’m touched you gave them to me.” Alan’s eyes began to brim with tears. 

“You’ll set me off. It’s _happy_ Christmas.” 

“But I am. “

Rigsby leaned across to have a slow smooch before they all ended up sobbing.

“I might as well spend the rest of the day in bed. I doubt the rest will match up,” said Rigsby, with a contented yawn, after they’d finished. 

“I don’t want to go back downstairs.”

“It’s not time to get up yet. Stay in bed with me for a while. It’ll be a squeeze, but I don’t mind,” said Rigsby, drawing back the blankets. Alan smiled and took his dressing gown off to snuggle up to him. They didn’t talk much as the lateness of the hour had got to them and they just enjoyed being close before Alan sloped off downstairs.

* * * *

After the main course of Christmas dinner was eaten, the Moores were having a break before commencing on Christmas pudding. Alan was in the kitchen washing up along with his Nan, who was using the break to fill up on mince pies. She didn’t look like a woman who could consume her own weight in mince pies, but perhaps the candyfloss pink tint of her perm was a salute to her love of sugary treats. Rigsby was exempt from washing duty as he was a guest and Alan’s parents were having a rest in the lounge.

“So,” said Nan, spreading some brandy butter on a mince pie, and peering at him over her large glasses, “How long has he been your Mr Rigsby?”

Alan crinkled his brow: had he heard his Nan right?

“He’s your fancy man isn’t he? I know you young ‘uns think you invented homosexuality, but us oldies aren’t as ignorant as you think.”

“I wouldn’t call Rigsby fancy,” said Alan, slowly, unsure what Nan was going to say next.

“You are walking out though? You can tell me. I know some have their prejudices,” she sniffed, “But I say live and let live as long as it doesn’t scare the horses.”

“Yes, we are. I’m relived you’re OK about it. Do you think Mum and Dad will be? I imagine Mum would cry and Dad would...” Alan trailed off and looked down at the pan he was scrubbing. 

“Your father wouldn’t be pleased.

Alan’s face dropped. He’d hoped if Nan was OK it would make everyone OK somehow.

“He wouldn’t disown you, I’m sure of that.”

“That’s something I suppose,” said Alan, dully. “How did you guess we’re an item?”

“By the way you kept looking at each other diagonally across the table. Ho, I thought to myself, there’s two people who really want to be sat together. I remember your parents being the same when they had their first Christmas at me and your grandfather’s. Your grandfather wasn’t happy about your mum as a partner for our son, but he got over it in the end.”

“But Rigsby’s not a girl and then there’s the age gap.”

“Your grandfather was quite a bit older than me: must be a family trait,” said Nan, with a grin. 

“I’m impressed you worked out we’re a couple by the way we looked at each other. I wish I was as good at reading people.”

“Hearing you last night through the bedroom wall may have helped. It might have been muffled, but the sound of lovers sharing sweet nothings is unmistakable.”

Alan smiled. “You’re not that good then?”

Nan raised a batter covered spatula in protest. “I’m a wise, old lady: I am that good!”

“I believe you, Nan. I just wanted to be alone with him to give him a present.”

“Which wasn’t a pair of socks?”

“No.”

“What was it?”

“Ah, you’re just being nosy now. It was a bottle of cologne, if you must know.”

“I thought he smelt good today. Not what I would have done if was alone in a bedroom with my lover,” she said giving him a knowing look. 

“Nan!” exclaimed Alan, “You shouldn’t be thinking things like that.”

“Why not? How did you think your father got here? By stork? Did he get you anything?”

“A pair of gold cuff-links.”

Nan peered at his rolled up shirtsleeves. “You’re not wearing them?”

“I couldn’t, there’d be questions.”

“It seems to me you should. Aren’t you meant to wear your best new things on Christmas Day? Your mum is wearing the bracelet your dad gave her.”

“It’s too late to put them on now.”

“It’s not too late. The Queen hasn’t made her speech yet.”

“Me, Rigsby or the royal one?” said Alan, still feeling gloomy. 

“You’re not ashamed of him are you?”

Alan mulled it over as his Nan passed him a dishcloth. “He does have some outdated attitudes and sometimes I don’t think he’s quite got his head around being a bloke who’s going out with another bloke, due to the, er, outdated attitudes, but he’s getting better. He was a right miserable sod when he was single.”

“But not any more, does he make you happy too?”

“I guess so. It’s nice being in a couple isn’t it?” Alan smiled his answer at her. 

“Not always, but it should be celebrated when it is.” She patted him on the shoulder and reached over to grab a lemon curd tart. 

Was Nan telling him to go for it or being consoling, thought Alan.

* * * * 

In the lounge, the survivors of Christmas dinner were resting, the only signs left of their mighty battle were paper hats worn askew and empty drinks glasses trying to retreat behind Christmas cards. There was no fire in the hearth as the central heating was on full blast. Alan’s parents were on the sofa, while his Nan and Rigsby were sat on armchairs either side of the fireplace. Alan came into the lounge wearing a fresh shirt. He hooked a footstool with his foot and pushed it along to sit next to Rigsby. 

“Two costume changes in one day, anymore and you’ll turn into Shirley Bassey,” said Rigsby, tipsily, from under a red hat. 

Alan brandished a shirt cuff at him.

Rigsby pushed his paper hat back. “Ohhh,” he said in understanding as a cuff-link caught the light. 

“My other shirt had buttons and I decided I’d change to show my new cuff-links off.” Alan sat up straight, chin raised, voice brisk and business-like. 

“They look very posh, poppet. I didn’t know you could afford little luxuries like jewellery on a student grant,” said Mrs Moore as she poured herself a Babycham.

“They’re a Christmas present from Rupert.”

“Who’s Rupert?” asked Mr Moore. 

Alan nodded at Rigsby. 

“Rupert’s my first name, like the bear,” said Rigsby, looking worried for a moment. Had Alan decided to come out? He might have told him. He didn’t think Moore senior had warmed to him, maybe it was his way. 

“Do you regard him as a son?” asked Mr Moore.

Rigsby kept his eyes on Alan, in case he suddenly became telepathic. He lifted his chin to say yes, but Alan gave his head a slight shake and he lowered his head as he answered with a drawn out, “Noooo.” Feeling he was expected to give an explanation he added, “I give all my tenants jewellery for Christmas?”

Alan shook his head again. 

“No?” Rigsby asked Alan. 

“Surely you know why you gave him cuff-links.” Mr Moore was irritated at the way Rigsby looked at his son for guidance over a simple question: what was going on? 

“He gave them to me for the same reason you give mum jewellery. I bought him some cologne. Doesn’t it smell gorgeous on him? I know I like it,” said Alan, defiant. 

“Oh!” cried Mrs Moore and clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Mr Moore’s eyes flicked back and forth between Alan and Rigsby. In a split second when he wasn’t looking at him, Rigsby impressively downed a generous tumbler full of sweet sherry and regretted it wasn’t a bottomless one. 

“This is like high noon with party hats,” said Nan, who was currently the jolliest person in the room. “Who’s going to make the next move? I’m on the edge of my seat or would be if I was as mobile as I used to be.”

“I knew that girl you brought last year wouldn’t last, but I never imagined you’d swap her for a, a, landlord. I dread to think what you’ll bring next year,” said Mr Moore and took a gulp of whiskey in case it could wash away what his son had said. 

“It’s only a phase. You know how experimental students are supposed to be, it’ll be alright once he gets his medical degree, he’ll go back to normal,” said Mrs Moore.

“It’s a phase which has lasted ten months and counting,” said Alan. “As far as I’m concerned, I hope this is the first of many Christmases with Rupert. I love him.” He reached across and gave Rigsby’s hand a squeeze before sitting back on the stool, because holding his hand would leave him in an uncomfortable stretched out position. 

Rigsby brushed away a tear. “I love you too. I can’t imagine being without you.” 

Mr Moore flinched at this and said, “Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable at the top of the tree instead of slumped in an armchair?”

“What? Are you calling me a fairy? Well, here’s one queen’s speech, that’s offensive language and I should know as I’ve used it in a derogatory fashion many a time myself,” said Rigsby, with an air of misplaced pride. 

Alan groaned and put his head in his hands. “Please don’t start an argument, not in this way.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry if I’ve upset Mr Rigsby with my language,” said Mr Moore, sarcastically.

“This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” said Rigsby to Alan. The sherry and other drinks had done their work and reduced Rigsby’s ability to pick up on Mr Moore’s sarcasm. To his fuzzy mind, as Moore senior hadn’t thrown him out the house or tried to throttle him it counted as a kind of acceptance. “It’s like a great weight has been lifted now we’re open and out. I feel emancipated - too long has patriarchy dictated how we live and I’m not going it stop me from living my life or is that women’s lib?” Rigsby raised his empty glass as a toast to freedom.

“Have you burnt your bra then?” said Nan, with a grin.

“My bra burning days are behind me,” said Rigsby, cheerfully, although he really meant women.

Nan laughed.

“I’m glad someone finds this situation funny,” said Mr Moore. 

“Stop being so serious and acting like something terrible has happened,” said Nan.

“Hasn’t it? Look at Alan. Now he’s come out the shamefulness of this, this, relationship has hit him.” Mr Moore spoke as if he didn’t want the words in his mouth.

“He did tell me Mr Rigsby wasn’t very good at being queer,” said Nan. 

“You try being camp. I had to give it up, it’s hard work,” said Rigsby. 

Alan groaned again and muttered something about stereotypes.

“You’re a lush,” said Mr Moore.

“It’s a quarter to three on Christmas Day, ninety-nine percent of the adult population have drunk themselves silly, which as well as Mr Rigsby includes you, son,” said Nan and pointed at the side table next to him covered in empty glasses. 

“But I handle my drink better.” Alan’s dad sounded whiny in response to the reprimand from his mum.

“You forget I can remember the times you didn’t,” said Nan.

“I like your Nan, Alan. If she comes to stay I won’t charge her for a room.”

“Would you charge us?” said Mrs Moore, indicating her and her husband.

Alan lifted his head. “Most probably and don’t expect a discount.”

Mrs Moore giggled.

“Shouldn’t you be sobbing over grandchildren that will never be?” said Mr Moore, who wanted his wife to stay with his disapproval and not move over to his mother’s way of thinking. 

“Aha, that’s because your wife has worked out if Alan stays with me in the natural order of things I’ll die first and he’ll still have time to find a girl, preferably one in a fur bikini like Raquel Welsh – you liked that film didn’t you? – and produce some grand-kids. I’m older than him, you know.” Rigsby tapped the side of his nose. 

Both Mrs Moore and Nan laughed again. 

“Don’t say that!” said Alan.

“Sorry about letting on to your parents you weren’t watching films for the educational element.”

“I meant the dying!”

“Right. Never mind, you could go first by picking up a weird virus from one of your Petri dishes.” Rigsby reached over and patted Alan’s knee.

“That’s true,” said Alan and gave him a shaky smile. 

“What with all your medical jars, and God knows what else strewn about unwashed for months, I’m surprised you haven’t started the next plague,” said Rigsby.

“I need those jars for my studies and if I did clean them you’d be telling me money for cleaning products doesn’t grow on trees,” said Alan.

“Isn’t it time for pudding?” interrupted Nan, who wanted to stop a full scale argument, even if they were traditional at Christmas. 

“Yes, it’s time some sort of order was restored in this house. I can’t say I approve of your choice, Alan, but it seems my views are in the minority,” said Mr Moore looking at Rigsby with disdain.

“Can’t say you approve! That’s rich, that is. I’m a man of means, a catch. I own my own property and I’m beholden to no one. I’m no nine to five drone; I’m my own boss, one of the bourgeoisies. Furthermore, I bet the Waterson’s future daughter in law hasn’t drunk all the booze at the back of the cupboard they’d been given without complaint, even though it’s obvious it’s the stuff no one else wants.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure: she’s as common as they come. She’ll bleed him dry if they make it down the aisle,” said Mr Moore, with a scowl, before throwing up his hands. “It seems the children on this street are incapable of finding someone decent to go out with. I give up. Mr Rigsby and Alan can sit next to each other at the table, but don’t think you’ll be sharing a room.”

“Of course not, it wouldn’t be decent,” agreed Rigsby. 

Mr Moore relaxed a little. It was of some consolation to know Rigsby respected some normal standards of behaviour. 

“Does this mean everyone is alright with me and Rupert?” asked Alan. 

“I suppose it does. In my day children obeyed their parents, but today we go with whatever makes them happy, which is probably a change for the better, when all’s said and done,” said Mr Moore wearily and Nan and Mrs Moore nodded their agreement. “And you’re not going to give up your medical studies are you to be, say, an interior designer?”

Alan rolled his eyes. “I still want to be a doctor. I’ve been studying for too long to give up.”

“That’s a relief. I’d rather you have a boyfriend than throw away your education,” said Mr Moore.

“Welcome to the family, Mr Rigsby, er, Rupert,” said Mrs Moore, getting up from the settee. “Would you like to light the Christmas pudding?”

“You can use Rigsby if you prefer," said Rigsby. Alan was the only one who called him Rupert and he was unused to anyone else using his first name. "I’m not bothered about lighting the pudding if someone else wants to do it,” said Rigsby.

“I’ll do it,” said Alan, as he liked starting the blue flames flickering around the pud. “I thought if I came out Christmas would be the worst one ever. I’m so happy everything has turned out fairly alright.” He beamed and hugged everyone.

“Who’s the one who can’t handle their drink now?” said Rigsby, who naturally received the biggest hug.


End file.
